Chapter Forty
Breaker
“You know the MC is going to find you, right?” I rasp, forcing as much bravado as I can into a voice that wants to shatter. My stomach twists, rage climbing my throat like fire. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do to a creep like you?”
He grins, slow and wrong as a snake’s shed skin.
“You think I don’t expect that?” he says, voice soft as a lullaby, “You think I haven’t planned for every contingency?
” His tongue flicks over his lips, savoring the moment.
“They won’t find me. They won’t stop me.
And whatever risk you say I’m in, oh, the payoff is worth the price. ”
I force my breathing to stay even. I need him talking, need him distracted. All I need are seconds — just seconds — to do what I know I have to do.
“So you like killing women that much?” I sneer, keeping my tone flat. “Does that get you off?”
His eyelids flutter and he actually sighs, as if I just gave him a massage with a happy ending.
“Off? Oh… Breaker, it’s not just the killing.
” He closes his eyes, remembering, nostrils flaring.
“It’s the way they scream. The struggle.
That moment their eyes shift from hope to despair.
” His voice goes syrupy, thick and slow. “That moment is… delicious.”
The bile in my throat burns like acid, but I force a grim smile. “Sounds like you’re getting worked up there, Killian.”
Something in him flickers, a hint of embarrassment, then he laughs — so soft, so obscenely gentle — and stands, brushing the dust from his hands.
He glances downward, adjusting his belt.
“You know…” He trails off, then shrugs. “I think I need a minute. A little… fresh air.” His grin returns, wide and unhinged.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he winks and slips out the door, humming to himself like he’s stepping into a day spa.
The second he’s gone, I get to work.
First, I test the ropes. My wrists are lashed so tight I can barely feel my hands, numbness crawling up my forearms. Double-knotted, military-style, not an inch of give.
There’s no way to slip them, no magic trick.
I remember the old SERE instructors, the stories they’d tell: sometimes the only way out is through.
I brace my feet, close my eyes, and focus on the image of Riley’s face. I picture her smile, the warmth in her eyes when she looks at me, the way her hand fits against my chest. That image fills me, empowers me, and then I lean forward with every ounce of force I have left.
The snap of my joint dislocating is sickening — louder than I imagined, like a branch breaking underfoot.
White-hot pain goes searing along my arm, detonating in my skull.
Blackness edges my sight, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming, biting down so hard I taste blood.
I focus on the pain, ride it, let it burn a hole through me.
My left wrist now hangs at an unnatural angle, the joint shifted just enough to shrink my profile.
I twist, grinding the jagged edges, and the rope finally loosens, the fibers groaning as I wrench my hand free.
Grunting, gritting my teeth, I force my screaming hand to do the work it needs to do. I’m shaking, sweating, half-blind. For a second, I’m afraid I’ll pass out. But I force my eyes open, rip air into my lungs, order the world to stay upright, set myself to work.
Then — I’m free.
I stand just as the side door creaks open again.
Killian saunters in, knife dangling from his fingers, still wearing that sick, dreamy smile. The knife isn’t for show — its edge glimmers, wet and sharp. He’s barely two steps in before he freezes, head cocking as he realizes I’m no longer tied.
His smile falters, but only for a split second.
“Well,” he says, voice almost admiring. “That was unexpected. Not unwelcome, but unexpected.”
“Yeah,” I croak, holding my broken wrist behind my back. “Got a few surprises left.”
He lunges — fast, low, veteran’s muscle memory.
The blade is aimed at my gut. I twist away, but not fast enough.
The tip slices me just above the hip, and hot blood instantly soaks my shirt.
I grunt and grab the nearest thing I can — the chair I was bound to — and swing it like a sledgehammer.
Wood splinters as the leg catches his chin; he stumbles but doesn’t fall.
He comes at me again, this time slashing sideways, aiming for my ribs.
I block with my forearm — the broken one — and agony screams through my body, but I use the momentum to slam the chair into his knees, and it cracks into pieces at the force of the blow.
We both crash into a shelf, tools and debris raining down around us.
He knees me hard in the stomach. I double over, gasping. He gets his hand to my throat, squeezing. I claw at his arm, but his grip is iron. My vision tunnels. I can feel him grinning, savoring every second, the monster finally unleashed and loving it.
But I still have that chair leg in my good hand, and I swing it up, catching him square in the temple. His grip slackens. I elbow him in the nose, breaking it with a crunch, and he stumbles back, clutching his face.
“Fucker!” he howls, blood streaming down.
He comes at me, wilder this time, knife slashing.
I sidestep, grab his wrist, and twist. Even with one hand, I have leverage and rage enough to force it down.
The blade glances off my thigh, but I ignore the pain.
I wrench his arm behind his back and slam him into the counter.
Glass shatters, spraying everywhere.
We’re both covered in blood now, breathing in short, animal puffs. He’s strong, but I’m meaner. I rake my fingers into his eyes — anything to buy half a second, and then I grab his hair, slam his face into the counter again, and he goes slack for a moment, dazed.
That’s all I need.
I dive for the knife, fingers scrabbling over broken glass until I close around the handle.
He tackles me from behind, teeth sinking into my shoulder, and we go down in a heap.
My head snaps against the concrete, fireworks detonating behind my eyes, but I keep hold of the blade — and then I turn and drive it into his chest.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He makes a wet, surprised noise, more insulted than afraid. His eyes are inches from mine, wide and blue and utterly empty. He collapses on top of me, dead weight, blood pooling fast and dark. I push him off, rolling onto my back, every breath a red-hot spike. The room reeks of copper and terror.
I make it to my knees, then to my feet, swaying. My left hand is useless — I cradle it against my chest. There are punctures in my shirt, blood everywhere, but I’m alive. Barely.
My eyes land on my phone, still on the table across the room.
I stagger to it, snatch it up, and swipe the screen with shaking fingers. I know what I’ll find.
Killian sent Riley directions.
To him. To Viper. To her death.
“No…” My voice cracks. I pocket the phone, grab Killian’s car keys, grab his phone, and stumble toward the door. I don’t care that I’m bleeding, don’t care that I can barely stand; all I care about is Riley. “Hold on, Sparrow. I’m coming.”